THERE were many funerals to be seen in the town in these days, little groups of red-eyed men and women straggling through the streets carrying coffins that were as crude as packing-cases; few of the processions were as long as that which formed up in the Via dei Martiri to accompany Rico, the dead boy, to his grave. Some of the soldiers were there, and all of the civilians except for Francesca and her man, who held themselves unaccountably aloof and who watched from their doorstep without heeding the hostile glances and comments that were flung in their direction.
The mumbling of the crowd had the tone and rhythm of a chanted chorus. From out of it there rose a cry from the mother, a cat’s wail that faded away into breathless little screams. An old man took up the shafts of the hearse – a little handbarrow with a canopy supported by spiral columns, painted and ornate as a hokey-pokey cart – and began to trudge along in the roadway like a tired horse. In front of the hearse a nun led a troop of little children. Some of them were proud, some looked mischievous, some self-conscious, some unnaturally solemn, but although they told their beads and chanted ave marias like multiplication tables, it was clear that all of them had given up trying to understand what connection their vanished friend Rico had with the little box on the hearse. Behind the hearse two women supported the mother, who panted noisily as she dragged her feet over the cobblestones. The neighbours shuffled behind, a bobbing procession of black in the sunlight. Their heads were bowed and they frowned fiercely as if each was pondering on the problem of mortality, but the reverent murmuring and the funereal pace could not conceal the pride, even the shameful pleasure that the occasion gave them. With sorrow there are no half measures. Real grief cannot be put on like a garment. Those who are not felled by it are passed by. The people wore the clothes appropriate to the event, they composed their faces into the expressions proper to the event, and they commanded themselves inwardly to feel as they ought; but all three actions made them equally uncomfortable. To them this was a day apart from the lifelong succession of dreary, ordinary days. It was a day of ceremony; and they loved, they needed ceremony; throughout their lives they looked forward to it; it was a fire to light their darkness. It was a day of importance when they, the humble, the disregarded, trod the streets in solemn procession while the well-dressed people on the pavements looked at them with dread and respect. It was a day when they walked, without anxiety, in the sun. Their hearts were heavy for the mother; she still bore the burden of life which they all knew, and for her the burden had become even heavier; but, when they had overcome the first impulse of terror for themselves with which the death had struck them, they forgot the child. Among these people, death was the least of misfortunes.
§§§§
Paloma and Tina di Spirito were walking together. They talked in sidelong whispers.
‘I do not know how you can walk so far in those high heels,’ said Tina.
‘It is easy when one carries the body gracefully.’
‘I have never worn such shoes. I would fall over if I tried to wear them. Perhaps one day you will let me try them on, just for a little while?’
‘You would not be able to wear these shoes.’
‘Why not? I am not fat like you.’
‘I know you are not fat, shrivelled one. Nor am I fat, but strong-bodied. You are smaller than me, but your feet are bigger. My legs are not thin, to disgust men, but my feet are small and beautiful. Many people have seen them, and can tell you.’
‘Many men!’
‘I am not ashamed that men admire me.’
It is not because of your feet that they give you shoes!’
‘Your eyes are too big, Tina, and also your tongue!’
‘I would not wear, at the funeral of an innocent child, shoes and a dress that I had bought with my body!’
‘Ha! You have nothing to sell!’
‘No? Let me tell you that many soldiers have come to my door, but I have never opened it to them. I have my virtue, and I do not sell it.’
‘I sell nothing. I ask nothing of men but pleasure. I cannot help it if they bring me gifts to show their love. I live as you others fear to live!’
‘You ought to live in a house!’
‘Do not call me a whore!’
‘The truth hurts?’
‘Malignant one!’
‘Stinking one!’
There were indignant whispers from behind them. They lowered their heads and held handkerchiefs to their eyes, two mourners walking in silence and sorrow.
§§§§
The mother’s head hung as if her neck had been broken, and although her feet, beneath her long black skirts, crept in agony over the cobbles, her body was a dead weight on the arms of her companions.
‘He was so good,’ she moaned, ‘so gentle, so young. His smile was as fresh as the dawn over the sea and his laugh was as sweet and as delicate as the little goat-bells. His heart was full of love for his mother. Always he wanted to help. He was without sin, a saint, an angel.’
Her head lolled back and she raised her swollen eyelids like a blind woman whom the sun’s glare could not hurt. ‘For whose sins was he taken? For whose sins do I suffer? For whose sins did the storm arise and drown my husband in the sea? What have I done that all my children should die? Lord, why did you strike them down with fever, with hunger and with war?
‘He was my last born, my last hope. Who will care for me when I am sick? To whose house shall I creep when I am old and helpless? Why has God left me alone in this evil world?
‘Who sins, and who is punished? All my life I have been a pious woman, and my children were good children. I see the wicked flourish, I see them gather riches, I see them drive the poor from their path, I see them take the good food from the mouths of our children, but I see them flourish, I see them laugh, I see their children dance and sing. The innocent are punished for their innocence. The suffering are punished for their suffering. From we who have little, all is taken away.’
She uttered a long, trembling cry, and raised herself on the arms of her companions. ‘The Lord is good! The Lord has taken them from this dolorous life! May the Lord in His mercy take me, too!’
Her body sagged again, and her neighbours dragged her along, behind the hearse, as if to her own grave.
§§§§
Nella whispered, ‘That Francesca! Did you see her?’
‘Be quiet!’ muttered Graziella.
‘But did you see her?’
‘Do not look so sprightly. Walk more slowly. This is a funeral, not a wedding.’
‘You walk like a bride yourself. All the time you walk like a bride, not only today. You are happy, aren’t you?’
‘This is not the time to talk of such things. Be quiet!’
‘She did not even come across the road. She is afraid even to stir out of the house with that man of hers. That man, I am sure he is a thief, or a murderer. He is afraid of people. Honest men are not afraid of people.’
‘Why?’
‘I tell you, she has good reason. I have spoken with her. Now be quiet!’
But why? What has she told you?’
‘Walk with respect. Everyone is looking at you.’
‘Tell me!’
Graziella frowned and walked on in silence.
‘Now you have secrets. Before, we did not keep secrets from each other. All right, you are not the only one who can have secrets.’ She said, self-consciously, in English, ‘Mum’s the word, gel.’
‘What is that?’
‘That is English. You are not the only one who learns English words.’
‘Where are you learning these words?’
‘That is my business. I know more words.’
‘I have told you to keep away from the soldiers. If I find that you are going with the soldiers…’ the anxiety faded from Graziella’s voice, and she smiled. ‘It is that boy, isn’t it, that Tiger?’
‘That one!’ Nella laughed, a harsh, woman’s laugh. ‘He is enamoured of me, I know that. He trots about after me, and he looks at me like a sick dog. But that one is not for a woman. He put his hand on my breast once, and he ran away as if I had burned him.’
‘Listen to the woman talking! Well, play with your Tiger. With him you will come to no harm. Pippo watches him.’
‘Pippo had better watch well, then.’
‘Watch yourself, child. For the love of God, be careful, and think of the future.’
‘What future?’
‘Your future. How will you ever find a husband if you are not a good girl?’
‘Why do you not think of your own future?’
‘Of that I dare not think. I do not know what will become of me. What is already done is done. God will deal with me, and I am content to leave it to Him, without thinking any more. It is not kind of you to remind me. But with a girl who has not yet begun to suffer, it is different. I see girls every day who have been foolish with soldiers, and there are many others, many, many, who have to lead that life for bread. Poor things, it is not their fault, they are driven to live thus by the hunger of their families. While the English are here it is not so bad for them, but what will happen to them when our men come back? No man will take one of them for a wife. They will have to lead bad lives till they die.’
‘Their lives will be no worse than those of other women. I do not intend to live like them, and I do not intend to marry here and be a slave for the rest of my life. I shall go to England.’
‘Ha! Shall I laugh or weep for you?’
‘You can laugh if it pleases you. What you do not know, you do not know! I am young and beautiful, and I shall marry an Englishman and go away from here, and live a free and wonderful life, with a big house, and money, and a motor car, and dancing.’
‘Dear child, how you dream! In your house, when your mother talks to you, you dream. In bed, you dream. Every night you sit on a bench at the cinema and dream. You walk in the streets dreaming. Well, if that is your dream, enjoy it. Every woman has her dreams to sustain her. I would not rob you of yours. But keep your dreams in their place or they will break your heart.’
Nella walked on in silence, letting her dreams take possession of her. She knew them for fantasies. He had offered her no promises or encouragement. He used her briefly and cruelly, and sent her away from him each time as if he were dismissing one of his own soldiers. Each time she would get out of the truck; he would grin at her, say curtly, ‘Same time, same place, tomorrow,’ and would drive off without any farewell gesture; and she would stand looking after him, her hands clasped behind her back, her feet crossed childishly, her head inclined and her eyes alight with secret thoughts. She forbade herself to recognize the truth. He was so big and handsome, he had chosen her out of all the women in this city, she did so much to please him, he was a man from those magic lands which a hundred films had revealed to her. She saw the future as if on a flickering screen in the smoke-filled darkness of a cinema; he was struggling with himself, that was why he was so brusque – it was an old story – and on the eve of parting he would surrender to his love, he would come to her and confess, he would carry her away.
Triumph uplifted her. She acted inwardly the scene when she received his homage. She could no longer see the hearse behind which she walked, nor feel the cobbles beneath her feet.
§§§§
Rosario nudged Craddock. ‘You believe in this nonsense?’
‘No. I have buried too many friends without all this.’
‘Then why did you encourage it? It was you and your soldiers who paid for the funeral, it was your men who paid to have candles burned in every church in the town, even in the cathedral, and to have masses sung everywhere. Such a funeral is for a prince, not for a brat from the docks. It was very good of your men. But why did you trouble yourselves?’
‘One does these things for the living. There is the mother. And there are the two children in hospital. Most of the money we collected we are using to send them toys and food, to help them get well. We even bought Aldo a puppy and persuaded the people at the hospital to let it stay there with him. He will make friends with it, and it will not be so bad for him when he realizes that Vittorio is dead.’
‘I admire you. Yet I think it is a waste of time. Everything you do, including your war, is a waste of time.’
‘I do not think so. Fascism is the strongest support of an evil system…’
‘Do not lecture me about systems. I know all about them. Old Buonocorso used to be an expert on the subject.’
‘…a system that denies the world to the people who live in it. When we have destroyed Fascism, men will be more free to create the world as they wish it to be.’
‘You have a touching faith in their ability to understand what they wish it to be. You believe in man. Others believe in God. I cannot believe in either, for I am cursed with the capacity to think.’
‘I believe as I do because I think. I can prove to you…’
‘Please do not try. You will not convince me, and I have no desire to create doubt in you. It would make your life very unpleasant.’
‘Speak freely, I am not frightened to listen.’
‘No. On my side, too, it would be a waste of breath. When one is upheld by faith, no reasoning can weaken it, nor even experience. The more your experiences belie your faith, the greater your need for that faith becomes, and the more you cling to it. Every blow only serves to strengthen it. The tragedy is that experience stores up within you, and one day, when some crisis forces you to think, everything is revealed to you in a terrible flash. Faith crumbles, and you are left adrift.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I had a faith once. I was a Fascist. You are angry?’
‘No.’
‘Do not worry. I am not a problem for the authorities. It was a long time ago. I was not unhappy then. Life made a clear picture. There was the feeling of strength when the bands played in the packed stadium, there was the illusion of grandeur when the great shout went up in the square, there was the pride of having something to serve and the joy of having something to hate. There was the illusion that one could compel respect.’
‘I do not think that a defeat could change me so easily.’
‘It was not defeat, it was what defeat revealed. Everything that should have seemed tragic seemed only ridiculous. I despised myself when I saw the shabbiness of the things which had dazzled me. If I believe in nothing, it is because I have seen everything. I have not even…’ he could not avoid seeing Graziella walking in front, and his glance lingered like kisses on her smooth calves, hesitated, cheated, at the hem of her skirt, and moved on to discern the sway of buttocks and shoulders beneath her black dress. His entrails hurt…‘I have not even the energy to hate.’ He drew a long breath. The road was steep. ‘Nevertheless you are an intelligent man. It pleases me to speak with you.’
‘Me, too. I do not often have a chance to talk about these things. It is one of the things I miss.’
‘Yes. Do you know, one of my greatest pleasures used to be to talk, every evening, with the men in the street, and with my friends at the café? I had many friends. It is very lonely now, living among a crowd of empty women. One cannot talk with women. That is why I value your friendship so much. You do not mind if I consider myself your friend?’
‘No, it pleases me very much. I cannot see the priest in this procession. Where is he?’
‘He will be waiting for us at the cemetery. He has many burials to perform.’
‘Do you enjoy football? We are going to Acireale on Saturday to play against another battalion. I am in the team. We are going in lorries, and you will be welcome if you wish to come.’
Among all the black shapes swaying in front of him he tried not to see Graziella’s. ‘I shall be proud to come.’
§§§§
All the whispers mingled and the mother heard them, a devout undertone that surrounded her and comforted her.
She was emptied of her grief, weak and dizzy, as if after vomiting. Her mind was numbed and freed of the weight of affliction. She consoled herself that her child was at peace. ‘May the angels lead thee into Paradise,’ the priest was chanting.
On each side of the narrow flight of steps that led up into the cemetery vaults lay open, their thick stone walls torn apart by bombardment. In some of them lay heaped unconfined bodies, the cadavers of the poor cast here like refuse, shrunken by hunger, mangled by wounds, or bloated with decay, made loathsome by the heat and the flies. The stench was horrible. Behind, a soldier lurched out of the procession and stumbled down the steps to the gate, retching loudly, his eyes streaming, a handkerchief clasped against his nose. The pallbearers did not notice the smell as they grunted up the steps, their faces red and dazzling with sweat. The children did not notice it, watching the priest with big eyes. The priest did not notice, chanting mindlessly the too-familiar prayers. The mother did not notice, walking up the steps with the light tread of the dazed.
Soon the black pit would yawn before her. She would gather all her strength for a last performance. She would rave, shriek, tear her clothes, struggle to cast herself down into the grave. She would move all the women to a wailing chorus and the men to a mumble of pitying admiration. But now she was uplifted by her visions. She could see the hundreds of candles in the dim churches, tall and slim in their white purity. The soft radiance of their flames shimmered in her eyes like tears. She could see the priests, all those priests in all those churches, bowing before their altars and plying the saints with prayers on her behalf. She could hear the intonations of their requiems. It was all for her child. It was glory. The angels were bearing him up to Paradise like a little prince. They were lifting him up; their robes shone white against the sunlit vastness of the heavens; their wings beat with slow, soft power as they went upwards, infinitely upwards.
It was she who was being raised up, she from whose womb had come this glory, she of whom all would speak. She walked lightly; her head was proud; there was a blind radiance in her eyes. Not at her marriage had she walked like this. No bride could ever walk like this. She was ascending the steps of heaven.